Céspedes, Martí, Maceo, and Gómez also experienced rumor, defamation, and friendly fire.
14ymedio, Madrid, Yunior García Aguilera, August 22, 2026 / There are days when you open Cuban social media and get the impression that democracy is about to arrive, but it can’t because we’re all too busy attacking each other. The regime delightedly contemplates the spectacle. Now, some of the dirty work is done for free, from Miami, Madrid, Havana, or any corner with Wi-Fi. The official cyber-catfish barely have to lift a finger. We ourselves provide the fuel for the smear campaign.
Perhaps the problem is that we expect too much from our own people. We don’t want people capable of making mistakes, correcting them, irritating us, or disappointing us. We want heroes. But not just any kind of heroes. We want them like those we read about in history books, which were more like coloring books. We want them already cast in bronze, without compromising photos or chats. The bad news is that those heroes never existed.
Carlos Manuel de Céspedes, for example, did not walk peacefully from La Demajagua to the pedestal. His own comrades deposed him as president of the Republic in Arms in 1873. Then came the restrictions, the surveillance, and the bitterness. His correspondence was intercepted, and even his ability to reunite with his family abroad was hindered. He ended up isolated in San Lorenzo, where he died months later facing a Spanish column, alone and possibly betrayed.
“Urgent. The truth about Céspedes’ double life”; “Now we know why they call him the Father of the Nation”
Attacks also circulated regarding his private life. Céspedes had children with Candelaria Acosta, known as Cambula, while he was married, and there were also suspicions that he financially favored his family, accusations against which he defended himself in letters.
Imagine if Facebook had existed: “Urgent. The truth about Céspedes’ double life”; “Now we know why they call him the Father of the Nation.” Céspedes probably wouldn’t have survived a week againstthe algorithm.
Máximo Gómez wouldn’t have fared any better. For Spanish propaganda, he was the Dominican who had gone to Cuba to burn other people’s property. They called him “old Chinaman,” “fox,” a mercenary, and a dictator. If he attacked, he was bloodthirsty. If he maneuvered to avoid an unfavorable battle, he was a coward.
But Gómez didn’t only face Spanish fire. Among the independence fighters, there were those who always distrusted this foreigner with his harsh character and commanding nature. Martí broke with him in 1884 for fear that the war would end in a military dictatorship. Maceo also had bitter clashes with the Generalissimo. And in 1899, when Spain had already been defeated, the Assembly of Cerro de los Caballeros removed him from command of the Liberation Army; there were even those who spoke of the firing squad. Thirty years fighting for Cuba, and he still had to overcome the ultimate test: demonstrating that he was sufficiently Cuban.
“Martí sends others to die from New York”; “What does José Martí really live on?”; “Veterans unmask the supposed leader”
Martí would have fared even worse. Today we repeat “Apostle” with the peace of mind that comes from knowing how the movie ends. His contemporaries didn’t have that advantage. There were veteran independence fighters who attacked him for not having fought in the Ten Years’ War. Enrique Collazo led a particularly bitter controversy in which Martí was accused of being a coward and a freeloader, with insinuations even being made that he lived off the financial sacrifices of poor emigrants while others had risked their lives in the Cuban countryside.
Few campaigns would be more effective today: “Martí sends others to die from New York”; “What does José Martí really live on?”; “Veterans unmask the supposed leader.” Then the body language experts would appear, along with some channel featuring a thumbnail of Martí crying, and three “analysts” explaining for two hours that Dos Ríos was impossible because the Apostle was working for Spain.
His private life would have provided additional material. His marriage to Carmen Zayas Bazán was stormy, rumors circulated about Carmen Miyares, and the possible paternity of María Mantilla is still debated today. We wrote verses about the marble Martí. We would probably have asked the living Martí for a DNA test.
“Maceo’s true racial plan leaked”; “Officers denounce favoritism towards their own”
And then there’s Antonio Maceo. Against him, Spanish propaganda used one of the most poisonous fears of colonial society: race. But the most accurate attacks didn’t come from Spain, but from his own brothers in arms, who denied him promotions, forced him to relinquish command because of his skin color, and, when he distinguished himself, accused him of two things at once: favoring Black soldiers, and secretly conspiring to impose a “Black dictatorship” on the future republic.
Today, no one hesitates to call him the Bronze Titan. In his lifetime, many of his own countrymen—not just the enemy—seemed more interested in the bronze of his skin than in the size of the titan. “Maceo’s true racial plan leaked”; “Officials denounce favoritism toward their own.” Today’s algorithm wouldn’t even have had to invent the racist angle: his own coreligionists would have served it up on a silver platter.
None of this means that Céspedes, Gómez, Martí, or Maceo were above criticism. On the contrary. They were politicians and military leaders, not saints. They had egos, made mistakes, engaged in disputes, were sometimes unfair, and said things that today would fuel weeks of controversy. Precisely for that reason, they were human.
We demand that the next leader have the courage of Maceo, the intelligence of Martí, the selflessness of Céspedes, and the military talent of Gómez, but without the character of any of the four.
Democracy needs criticism. What it doesn’t need is our habit of turning every disagreement into an accusation of treason, every mistake into proof of infiltration, and every personal flaw into sufficient cause to politically execute someone.
History then did a formidable job of editing. From Céspedes it preserved La Demajagua; from Maceo, Baraguá; from Gómez, the invasion; and from Martí, Dos Ríos. It cut out many miseries, silenced gossip, lessened grudges, and finally polished the statues.
We are doing the opposite. We demand that the next democratic leader appear already polished, without blemishes, contradictions, or a past. He must have the courage of Maceo, the intelligence of Martí, the selflessness of Céspedes, and the military talent of Gómez, but without the character of any of the four. We are not waiting for a leader. We are waiting for a statue. And while we wait for it, we amuse ourselves by executing the living.
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